Hetalia Appearance Headcannons ʚɞ

Hetalia Appearance Headcannons ʚɞ

America:

He's your golden boy, golden hair and golden skin; he's got a square jaw and full lips - he's a paragon of humanity. Think the Roman Goddess Nike, he embodies ambition and victory. Born bathed in gold, the sun itself shines its affections on him. Of course, a perfect metaphor for the first born son of the Empire on which the sun never sets.

It's charming at first, the appearance of a moviestar and the smile of one too. No nation can deny his beauty, his proportions, his musculature - all broad shoulders and toned arms and thick thighs.

But cold blue eyes soon betray him; blue eyes which never quite match his all-American smile. He's perfect, ideal, and he's acutely aware of it. He looks like a God and he see's himself as one too. There's an arrogance to him, a dismissal in the tilt of his jaw, mirth in his eyes as they flock to him. It's ugly sometimes, but its knowable, and familiar, and safe in its disgust for the weakness others.

Canada:

The mirror image of America, but a (duller?), (fairer?), (gentler?) version - it depends who's asking. Unlike his brother, he was born without the favour of the Gods; his features, no different from Alfred's, are less remarkable, missing the divine perfection. He's the type to hide his laughs behind his hand, to smile at the earth rather than into the eyes of another. His shyness of mannerism a reflection of his shy features, they don't shine the way Alfred do but rather curl in on themselves. From the cool tones of his hair and its light waves, to the softer blue of his eyes. Pretty in their softness, he holds his brothers beauty but without the harshness of perfection. Easier to look at, easier to talk to - he holds not the favour of the Gods but the favour of man.

Russia:

A striking appearance. He's big; tall and broad, easily 6'4, a thick wall of muscle. His hair is soft, white, or platinum. A prominent nose and big hands but the gentlest eyes, not quite blue but lilac perhaps. There's a sweetness to his eyes but a relentlessness to them, always watching, waiting.

He's angelic in his colouring and his softness. Not quite human, perhaps a God; his sheer size, he stood above mankind, a figure to be looked up at, worshiped, strived towards. But there was something not quite right about him, not a coldness or a cruelty, nor any imperfection. Rather, it was the feeling he inspired in others: when you're walking home alone at night, when you say goodbye to someone you know won't come back, when your hairs raise and your gut feels heavy with something awful.

He felt like sin, yet no sin belonging to any known faith or God. You could see it in the way he averted his eyes, the stoop of his shoulders, and the deep layers of his clothes. The shame, the sickness, the sweetness of his gaze. Unknowable and lovely and terrible, a cold parallel to the burning warmth of America.

A sun, its moon, and the dead white star far away.